


The Tenth Plague

by Ashling



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Goddammit, WWII has come, sad Tommy strikes again, when will he leave me in peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14471454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: The end of all his battles, he thinks, can be measured in a single boy. And he has failed.





	The Tenth Plague

In the end, it was their losses more than their victories that bound them together. As always.

He came home to find Polly in his study, glass in hand, flicking through his expense reports. It looked just as if she'd never left, except her hair was steel grey and when she looked up there was little warmth in it. That made the old wound throb, but at least he was used to it. He sat across from her.

"What is it, Pol?"

"It's one question, and one question only."

"Go on."

"All the cuttings, and the beatings, and the lies. All the killings, Tommy." When Polly leaned forward, the lamplight caught her eyes and they shone. They shone too much and her voice wasn't steady. Perhaps there were more glasses before he arrived. Perhaps a son was more potent than several bottles. "What was the fucking point? Twenty years of rolling in the shit and breaking each other and watching men die around us and now our boys have to march off like all the rest?"

"It's—"

But he couldn't cut through; she was rolling on now as fast as if anguish was a form of gravity. "I believed you. I told Ada. God, a thousand years ago. I told her that you did it all because you knew. You knew we had to be just as bad as they were in order to survive. I fucking believed you that all of this would be enough. Now it's not. And how many graves..."

It wasn't question anyone could answer, so alright, she'd come to hurt him. Well done. Goal accomplished. "Pass me the bottle," he said.

"Should've taken him to Australia," she said. He reached over and took the bottle. It was nearly empty. She went on, "Should've gone when we had the chance."

"There's newspapers, Polly, even in Australia. And soldiers too. He would have gone."

"Maybe he wouldn't have."

"He's your son. He would have gone."

"Is that why Charlie's going? Because he's your son?"

"No." He swallowed a bitter mouthful. "He's going because he's his mother's son. I made the mistake of giving him some truth, when he was younger. Something about her serving the King. Now he wants to be a hero." He looked across the table at Polly with bleak eyes. "Two uncles and one father in the fucking Somme and somehow he still believes in heroes..."

"He's more like you than her."

"He has his mother's eyes." He finished the glass, then set it down. "When they send us the letter, I won't have to wonder. It'll take no fucking imagination. When the letter comes, I'll know exactly what he looked like..." And this time, no sapphire to blame.

"You survived," said Polly. It was almost comforting, and he regarded her with something like suspicion. "I'm only saying, you survived the last war. It's a fact."

"Surviving a war is only a matter of luck," he said.

"I'll pray for good luck, then."

"I'll get another bottle."


End file.
